


4 AM (And Other Friends)

by enjolrazzledazzle



Series: Finding your people [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7772203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrazzledazzle/pseuds/enjolrazzledazzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and 4 A.M. were fast friends. The moon and stars kept him company and whispered verse into his ears. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, the night Jehan met Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	4 AM (And Other Friends)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey it's another coffee shop AU. I know, it's lame, but I'm lame what can you do? I based this fic on this TED talk about time. The concept of 4 AM was explored and so I shoved it into the world of homosexual fanfiction. Enjoy.

Jehan met his oldest friend in highschool. Painfully shy and incredibly lonely, the young lanky boy starved for adventure and romance. 

With no friends, watery eyes, and battered leather-bound notebook, Jehan had snuck out of his bedroom and gone for a walk at 4 A.M. 

It was an hour unlike any other. 

3 A.M. was still technically night. It was the hour of procrastinators and alcoholics. It was lonely and self aware. 

5 A.M. was when morning came and overachievers stumbled out of bed to drink coffee like water. It was the hour of bleary preparation for a day of labor. To be woken up at 5 when you could be sleeping was a crime.

But 4 A.M. was a weird in between place that teetered between night and day. It was Jehan’s favorite time to be alive. 

He was the only person awake in this tiny town. He had never seen the world at 4 in the morning. It was quiet and peaceful and incredibly pure. Untouched by arguments and chaos, 4 A.M. was a time of introspection and poetry. 

Jehan and 4 A.M. were fast friends. The moon and stars kept him company and whispered verse into his ears. The humidity of summer days had yet to creep in and take the town under its heavy grasp. 

As Jehan grew from boy to young adult and left the mountains of Vermont for an urban college, his oldest friend came along with him. 4 A.M. never failed to be breathtaking and silent. It was the perfect time for long poems about love he had yet to experience. 

A few weeks into the beginning of his new life, he crept out of the small dorm he shared with a stranger and out into the streets of the city. 

Jehan, clutching a fluffy sweater around his bony shoulders, walked slowly and without care down the empty street, observing the shops and dorms around him. He was admiring the awning of an Indian restaurant when he realized he was not alone. He could hear someone, yards behind him, their footsteps sounding unmistakably drunk. 

The hair on the back of his pale neck stood on end and he quickened his pace. Glancing behind him, he realized it was a man. A very large man with a bottle in hand, sneering and mumbling to himself.

“Sweetheart!” the man called out. 

Jehan searched desperately for escape and it came in the form of a 24-hour café, a beacon of safety. Jehan practically ran into the coffee shop, shaking and taking in his surroundings. 

It was a cute little shop with midnight blue walls and white Christmas lights strung up along the walls. The mismatching couches and coffee tables were all empty, save a black cat who seemed to be having a nice nap. 

A man sat behind the counter, his black curls obscuring his face as he slept. 

“Hello?” Jehan asked frantically and the man shot up from his slumber, wiping drool from his cheek. 

The man was tall and lean, although man didn't seem like the appropriate word. Even when he’d just been woken from a nap, his green eyes gleamed.

Jehan seriously needed to pay attention to the matter at hand. 

“Look I really don't mean to bother you but there's this man who's following me, you see? I had nowhere else to go. And-” 

“I'll get you sorted. Bahorel!” the man shouted toward what Jehan presumed was the kitchen. 

The door to the kitchen swung open, revealing a very, very large man. His shoulders were broad and really, what did this guy eat because the muscles on him were just -

He also happened to be wearing a pink apron that stated You know you knead me. 

“What's up?” the monster of a man asked, eyeing Jehan suspiciously. 

“It seems we have a damsel. Who happens to be in distress. Namely, a creepy dude following him. Now be a dear, and have a word with creepy dude,” the man behind to counter said, ignoring Jehan's huff at being called a damsel. 

Bahorel nodded and moved to go outside but a call from the other man stopped him. 

“Oh and take off that apron. Not exactly intimidating, is it?”

Bahorel gave a hearty chuckle and untied the apron, handing it off to his friend. Jehan watched him walk outside to confront the drunk. 

Within 30 seconds of being talked to by the admittedly frightening baker, the other man paled and scampered away. Bahorel came in smiling. 

“Doubt he'll come within spitting distance of you, now,” Bahorel said and tied the apron back on, walking back to the kitchen. 

“Thank you. I really didn't mean to bother you. I was just out for a walk to admire the night,” he admitted. 

“At 4 o'clock in the morning? Hardly seems like an appropriate time for you to be out by yourself,” the barista scolded half heartedly, hopping up to sit on the counter. 

“I lived in a really small town. There wasn't exactly anybody waiting in the shadows in rural Vermont,” Jehan giggled, remembering how beautiful the stars looked without light pollution. 

“Well, this my love, is not Vermont. You should be more careful.”

Jehan huffed again. “How are my late night activities any of your business?” he said as viciously as he could muster. Which was admittedly not scary at all. 

“It became my business when you stumbled into our café asking for help. You're far too lovely to be eaten up by the big bad city,” the other man teased, his eyes and grin mischievous. 

“You're a jerk,” Jehan grumbled and turned to leave. This was what he got when he tried to do something that made him happy. He got a creepy stalker and a cute barista who liked to make fun of him. 

“Oh god. Wait!” he heard as he opened the door to leave. 

The man looked worried and had hopped off the counter. 

“I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I can be an asshole when I'm trying to flirt. We got off of the wrong foot,” he said, sounding guilty. Jehan didn't look him in the eye. Instead he opted to look at the bunny slippers he was now regretting purchasing. 

“Here, let’s start over. Hi! I'm Courfeyrac. I'm a student, as I'm assuming you are. I like long walks on the beach and show tunes.”

Jehan giggled and allowed to look Courfeyrac in the eyes. In those large, green, mischievous eyes. 

“Jean Prouvaire. But I like to be called Jehan. You're right, I'm a student. Literature. Fancy myself a poet, silly at that sounds,” Jehan admitted, his cheeks tinged pink as his long plaited hair. 

“Y'know I try to live by the words of Disney movies. And I recall in Ratatouille, it was said that ‘Anybody can cook’. I believe that rule applies to writing and therefore poetry. So if you write poetry, then you're a poet.” Courfeyrac grinned goofily and Jehan couldn't help but return the smile. 

“You're very kind.” 

“Only when I try to be. Come sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea,” Courfeyrac ordered, walking nonchalantly back to the counter to slide over it instead of walking around. 

Every movement was carefree and self assured. Courfeyrac looked comfortable in his body in a way Jehan had never been. Being lanky and feminine in his youth hadn't been easy for the poet. ‘Fairy boy’ and ‘faggot’ were nicknames he could still hear echoing in his head. 

“I don't have money on me,” he responded but was cut off by the wave of a hand. 

“Nonsense, go sit down. Give Moss a little love,” Courfeyrac called out. 

“Moss?” Jehan was stumped. Who was Moss? Why did they need love?

“The cat.”

Jehan's eyes widened in realization and did as he was told, happily sinking into a soft cushion and petting the dozing cat cautiously. The cat only began to purr in response, nuzzling his hand. Jehan had made another friend it seemed. She had whiskers and a tail but she was content to spend time with Jehan, so he decided they would get along nicely. 

He absently stroked the feline’s shiny fur and jotted a few lines about silent companionship and yellow eyes into the notebook he'd carried from his dorm. 

He was interrupted a few minutes later by a warm mug being held in front of his face. Jehan went cross-eyed for a moment then laughed as he took the steaming tea from Courfeyrac. 

“So what are you writing, little poet?” Courfeyrac flopped down onto the couch beside Jehan, their thighs closer than strictly necessary, if you asked Jehan. He set the notebook on the wood table in front of them with a sigh. 

“Nothing good,” he responded hastily, taking a sip of the tea. Which was, in retrospect, a mistake. 

The tea was scalding and in his surprise, Jehan's grip on the mug loosened. Its contents spilled all over Jehan's sweater and his lap and also Courfeyrac's lap. Both men shrieked, the scalding water drenching their clothes. Moss fled the chaotic scene. She seemed very disturbed. 

“I'm so sorry! My god, you give a free cup of tea and I spill it all over myself and your jeans. I-” Jehan was cut off by a loud laugh from Courfeyrac. 

“Seems the universe has given me my punishment for being a jerk.” Courfeyrac stood and Jehan had to admit it looked like they both had wet their pants. 

Jehan flushed as he took in the scene. 

“Ok. Here's what we're gonna do. I live in the apartment above. You'll come with me and we'll both get a fresh set of clothes,” Courfeyrac stated like he was telling Jehan about a secret mission. 

“I really don't mean to impose.”

Courfeyrac only scoffed. “Please, you've made this shift far more entertaining than it was ever going to be. Now come on!” he ordered and Jehan had to run to catch up. 

“Oh, you'll have to be quiet. My roommate doesn't get up till 7, lucky bastard,” Courfeyrac murmured as they walked into the dark apartment. 

The place smelled of cinnamon and Indian food. Courfeyrac noticed him sniffing. 

“My roommate, Combeferre. He gets nostalgic and cooks,” he whispered in explanation. Courfeyrac led him to his room and flicked on the light. 

It was a tad messy but Jehan couldn't claim to have a cleaner room. Posters both vintage and modern hung on the walls, advertising musicals and plays. Jehan was proud to recognize more than a few. His walls were white save the one behind the head of the bed. 

That wall had a portrait painted onto a large canvas of a group of a dozen people. Jehan recognized both Courfeyrac and Bahorel in the mix, Bahorel holding Moss in his arms. Courfeyrac had a goofy smile on his face and his arms were slung around two men. One was tall and brown skinned. Jehan assumed this was Combeferre. The other looked petulant and beautiful, his blond hair almost golden. Jehan noted that the blond man's portrait had the most detail out of them all. 

He couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. He could tell from this portrait alone that Courfeyrac had a dozen close friends who he loved. Jehan hadn't ever experienced something like that. He'd thought college would be his chance. But sometimes the poet was too shy for his own good. 

“Lovely, isn't it? My friend Grantaire did it for me as a birthday present,” Courfeyrac explained as he dug through a drawer. 

“It must be nice. Having so many friends,” Jehan said quietly. He cleared his throat and turned away from the painting. 

“It is. Don't worry,” Courfeyrac said. 

“What do you mean?” Jehan asked. 

“You'll find your people. College is hard, even for the extroverted ones. But you'll find them,” Courfeyrac said kindly and Jehan wondered how the other man could know his fears and doubts. 

“Here,” Courfeyrac said, thrusting a pair of flannel pajama pants and a long sleeved t-shirt toward the poet. “I didn't have much else that wouldn't just fall right off of you,” he teased and gestured to the door. “There's a bathroom to the right, you can't miss it.”

Jehan took the clothes and nodded gratefully. 

He had finished peeling himself out of the wet sweater and jeans when he picked up the shirt. It was soft and had probably once been a dark green but had now faded to a sage. Jehan slipped it on and the smell of cologne engulfed him. It was a masculine scent, something Jehan was not accustomed to. The sleeves covered his hands and made him feel small. 

He had to adjust the drawstrings on the flannel pajama bottoms so that they didn't fall off. But he supposed they would do. 

Jehan opened the door to a yawning bespectacled man who he assumed was Combeferre. The man didn't look awake, his hair stuck up in odd directions and he had pillow creases in his face. Combeferre looked him up and down, yawned again, and asked “Why have I started dreaming about Courf's hookups?” 

Jehan flushed, sputtering. “Oh I'm not. He's not. We aren't. The tea was hot. And so Courfeyrac lent me these-”

Courfeyrac's roommate blinked in tired confusion, shrugged and moved past him to the toilet. 

Jehan scampered away, calling out a “nice to meet you” before opening the door to Courfeyrac's room. 

“I think I just met Combeferre,” Jehan said to Courfeyrac's freckled back. Courfeyrac giggled, shrugging on a gray hoodie. 

“Did you get a single coherent word out of him?” He turned, raking a hand through his dark curls. 

“Not really. He seems nice?” Jehan followed him out of the room, flicking off the light. 

“Don't worry. He’ll have better manners when he's caffeinated. For a man in med school, he sure does have some unhealthy habits,” Courfeyrac snorted . They walked back down to the café and Jehan tried not to be sad that their chance encounter was probably coming to an end. 

“So, why don't I walk you to your dorm?” Courfeyrac asked easily. 

“Oh no you don't have to walk me. I'll be fine.”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “Just like you were fine earlier?”

Jehan huffed. “What about your customers?”

Courfeyrac did a double take. “Oh my god! You're right! What about the customers! It's,” he paused to look at his watch “4:32 in the morning, the line is just so long!” 

Jehan was Not Amused. Well, no he was very amused. And very smitten. But he pretended to be very Not Amused and crossed his arms. 

The barista held out an arm. “Shall we?”

Jehan sighed with resignation. “We shall.” He linked his arm with Courfeyrac and ignored the rhythmic gymnastics his heart was doing. He called out a goodbye to Moss and Bahorel. Bahorel grunted. Moss only cracked open an eye and went back to sleep. 

They walked at a leisurely stroll, taking in the night sky, however limited the star visibility was due to the bright city lights. 

“So why did you go on a walk at 4 in the morning?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice echoing in the empty street. 

“It's kind of sad,” Jehan responded. Evading questions with Courfeyrac didn't seem like it would be easy. So he carried on, not bothering to sugar coat it. 

“I didn't have any friends in high school. I didn't quite fit in with the guys who placed all their value in their masculinity. So I would go out at 4 and sit somewhere and write. And it felt nice to be somewhere quiet and undisturbed. I was really lonely but the night kept me company. So it's just kind of a habit. When I feel really isolated, 4 A.M. makes me feel better. Like I'm not so alone.” 

Courfeyrac was looking at him and Jehan was looking at the sky. They stopped in place. 

“So you felt alone tonight?” Courfeyrac asked

“Well. Not anymore,” Jehan murmured. When he looked back to Courfeyrac, the man wasn't quite smiling but he looked incredibly fond. 

“Can I kiss you?” Courfeyrac breathed. 

“Please.” Jehan could've counted those freckles he was so close. But he opted to let his eyes slip shut, enjoying the electric moment and waiting to be kissed. 

A soft pair of lips came in contact with his. His own mouth parted softly, reciprocating the kiss. Courfeyrac was being gentle with Jehan, he could tell. Like Jehan would break if he pressed too hard. It was sweet and careful. 

Jehan pressed harder into the kiss and their mouths moved faster. Their tongues tangled together and Jehan’s head was spinning. 

He wrapped his arms around the other man's neck and relished in the feeling of two strong hands cradling his waist. 

Soon the passionate kiss was broken by a breathless Jehan. He let his eyes drift open to see Courfeyrac. A crooked grin spread across Courfeyrac's face and Jehan now understood the meaning of the word swoon.

“You wanna know something?” Jehan whispered, leaning his forehead on Courfeyrac's. 

He hummed. 

“That was my first kiss,” he admitted, giggling. 

Courfeyrac's smile grew impossibly wider. “Really?”

“There weren't exactly a lot of queer boys in Winchester.”

Courfeyrac laughed, bright and loud. “C’mon. Let's get you home. I really should get back to the café,” Courfeyrac said, pecking him on the lips once more. 

“Hey! You said that-”

“I just want to walk you home, little poet. What's wrong with that?”

The night sky winked at Jehan. The moon and stars were brilliant but not as brilliant as Courfeyrac's smile. 

“Nothing,” he said, their arms linked and their steps synchronized. “Nothing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing this and id love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading!


End file.
